Lizard King
by JDRalston
Summary: Sixteen year old Caden Fletcher as been banded since his birth in 2012. His parents, tired of his rebellion and non-conformity, turn him over to the authorities. Caden is sentenced to life imprisonment in the walled city of Parsa, ruled by the rock star Lizard King. Will Caden be transformed like the others and into which gang? Can Caden and the others escape Parsa?
1. Rolling Acres

**Synopsis of Chapter One:**

**All Caden's parents want him to do is be the football star he should be, take that full-ride college scholarship and make his parents ¨über proud. But Caden wants to be an artist. He wants to know what it is like to be truly loved. He wants his mother and father to release him, remove the Gazing Parent Security band he's worn his entire life. It's not always good to get what we ask for.**

© J.D. Ralston 2012

Lizard King

By

J.D. Ralston

ONE - Rolling Acres

In an effort to combat the rise in abductions of children by sexual predators, Techno-Alert Industries developed a personal wrist-mounted Gazing Parent Security unit in 2010.

/aboutus

Caden Fletcher walked without purpose and with nowhere to go. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go back to high school. He'd blown it and it was only a matter of when and where they'd catch him. But, he didn't care. He hadn't cared for the last couple of months and why should now be any different.

His parents didn't care either. He was an annoying bit of inconsequential data on their GPS units: a pop-up in the window of his mother's pretty little life. He was a greasy smudge she

could never completely clean off the big glass window in her all-white living room in her pretty little pastel-colored house that looked out upon the other pretty little pastel-colored houses in their pathetic gated-community that stretched for miles in a precise geometric pattern. No matter how hard she scrubbed, Caden interfered with her vision of perfection.

"Caden," his mother had said just last night, her Corporate Woman perfume stinking up the entire room. "Sit down, please."

Caden wasn't really sure when his mother had decided he was stupid. It may have been in the third grade when he'd finally been diagnosed with dyslexia, but he suspected it'd been the first time he'd mixed up letters. It didn't matter that now in eleventh grade his reading comprehension scored at college level because he still couldn't spell and he still couldn't write. Well, not very well, anyway. And those are the indicators of future intellectual success: "We are always being measured, Caden, and you don't measure up." Is what she'd said after she'd opened his ACT scores.

"I've called a nice family meeting for us tonight because your father and I have something very important to say to you. Something you don't seem to understand yet about being a part of this family." His mother sat on the edge of her all-white leather couch in her white business suit and white leather pumps, her knees drawn tight together. She perched there for every meeting, like a snowy owl searching for a small, helpless mouse.

Caden twisted the expensive, indestructible band on his left wrist. His parents had had him fitted first at birth with a Techno-Alert band, a medical-grade stainless steel interior expansion band with a laminated insulator – shock-proof, waterproof, hypo-allergenic and available in five adjustable sizes: infant, toddler, preschooler, school-age and teenage.

Securely attached to this band was the Gazing Parent Security unit, allowing Caden's parents to monitor his whereabouts at all times. Once the pediatrician fit the band to Caden's wrist and secured the band's latch mechanism, the band could only be removed by one of his parents when they sent a release signal from their personal computer to the flash drive that was incorporated into the latch mechanism. Access to the flash drive was granted only through fingerprint identification on his parents' computers.

Caden continued to twist his band and watched his mother, waiting for her to pounce. But this time, he stayed his full self. He did not shrink into her white leather side chair. He lifted his chest and relaxed his shoulders and realized that he was stronger than his father now. He could, if he wanted, overpower him. This made him listen to them from a different place inside.

"Don't we have something very important to say, Michael," she said to his father.

His father nodded, slipping his handheld into the right pocket of his dark business suit. Then he tugged at his power tie, straining his thick neck away from it. He couldn't breathe around her either, he just didn't know it.

His mother always spoke to Caden very slowly, enunciating her words. "Your father and I work very hard to give you everything no child deserves. We make a lot of sacrifices for you. Don't we, Michael."

"Uh, huh." His father pursed his lips.

"And what do we really ask of you in return, Caden? Not much. As we've said many times before, make us proud on the football field. Do what you are told, when you are told and without reserve. That's not much to ask, is it, for all of the things we've given you." She paused. "It _has_ been very stressful to deal with the blow to our reputation that _your_ academic inferiority has caused. When you were playing football, we could overlook this deficiency in you. But now, now that you've come up with some half-crocked idea of being an artist … I cannot begin to tell you, Caden, how embarrassing this has been for me. Hearing the derisive remarks and seeing the shocked looks on the other parent's faces when I have to explain your absence on the football field." She breathed deeply and re-composed herself. She attempted to soften her tone, "We're concerned for your future, Caden."

And then Caden had an epiphany. Why at that moment, he wasn't totally sure. He had been enduring these exact kinds of moments all of his life. But this moment became elevated for him, removed from its fog of emotion, and he could see through it.

"You don't love me," he blurted out. He had thought they did. But he must have known they didn't really, because recently he had stopped trying to be what they wanted.

"It's not about love, Caden," she said. "It's about being a respectable member of Rolling Acres. And as your parents we are obligated to raise you to be exactly that. How are you going to support yourself when you turn eighteen if you don't get into college? You think artists make any money?" She laughed as if that were truly funny, amusing, comedic.

With great difficulty, he swallowed the bile that threatened to erupt from within him and spoil her perfect little living room.

"You have to have a real job, son," said his father. "It's not that you have to follow in our footsteps exactly."

"We have been phenomenally successful though, dear. We can open doors for him, if he wanted," she said.

"You're right, Charity. But I just don't think Caden is up to climbing the corporate ladder. Caden is a football player. It's in his genes." His father puffed out his chest and grinned at his mother. "Just think, Caden, after a few years in the NFL you could own a luxury car dealership."

"Ah, but he doesn't want to play football, remember?" his mother said. "He threw away his college scholarship to the Big Ten. It wasn't what he wanted to do with his life."

"What is there to do, if you don't play football?" his father asked.

Caden used to think this too. Football had been everything to him, back when it'd been fun. "I'm tired of getting hurt, playing hurt, playing with a headache that makes me think fuzzy, getting screamed at and my helmet pounded by Coach Peterson for every little mistake."

"Don't be ridiculous," his father said. "Coach Peterson is the best high school coach Rolling Acres has ever had."

"He's not going to listen to us, Michael. We're wasting our time, and obviously, we've wasted a lot of money. He isn't going to be the son we dreamed of having."

"Why don't you just get rid of me if you hate me so much?" asked Caden. He didn't cry though. Yes, it cut into him but he'd learned long ago how to keep that a secret from her.

"What are you suggesting?" his mother asked.

"You could have more children. Release me and send me somewhere far from here for the next two years and when I'm eighteen, I'll take care of myself. Live my own life. I can even change my name. We'll never miss each other."

"We cannot just_ send_ you somewhere, not monitor you and _still_ be legally responsible for you. Your actions could ruin our lives and I just won't take that risk. But if that is how you feel about us, Caden, your very own parents, there is a solution to this problem. Is that what you want?"

"Sure. Whatever. I'll go anywhere but here. Anywhere I don't have to be banded anymore. I'm tired of disappointing you."

"Be careful what you ask for, Caden," his mother said. "You have no idea how good you have it here in Rolling Acres." She stood up, looked down on him for a few seconds then turned and walked away, her high heels clicking across the ceramic floor tile.

His parents weren't home when he went to school in the morning. They never had been. Once he'd hit the ripe old age of twelve, and it was legal for him stay home alone, they fired the nanny and relied completely on the GPS band. But this morning, it felt sad. He'd said some things the night before maybe he shouldn't have. She was his mother after all; the only one he had.

And then on the bus and at school Caden began to notice things he hadn't before. How quiet everyone was, most of the time. Even in the hallways and the cafeteria. The only time anyone said anything in class, it was to give the correct answer. Sure, they talked to each other outside of class, but it was about everyday stuff. Clothes and hair, who liked who, video games. And speaking of clothes and hair, most of the kids looked like clones of their parents. The small percentage of ones that didn't were socially shunned and huddled in their own group.

He realized that the clone-like kids were deciding to grow up to be what their parents told them to be and that they were going to use the GPS bands on their kids. And he used to be one of those kids. He was embarrassed that he ever had been (why had he when she'd never really loved _him_ only her fantasy of him) and glad that something recently changed him. He was thinking his own thoughts, making his own decisions, understanding what he needed out of life. He was awake.

If he thought about it though, it was easier to let his parents continue to make all of the decisions about his life. Tell him what to be when he grew up, where to go to college, what would make him happy. They already controlled all the information he was given. His books, movies, television, video games and internet access all met their discerning approval.

Life was vastly complicated and why spend unhappy days in the prime of his life, sorting through so many complexities. On this level, he understood why his peers conceded to their parents, but now, he knew he could never again be friends with someone who was nothing but a paper cut-out of their true self. He'd never be able to endure another meaningless conversation, ever again.

Not that anyone talked to him anymore anyway since he'd quit the football team. He was a pariah. If they accidentally-on-purpose bumped into him in the halls, their faces wore an expression of horror as if they'd touched a leper and his flesh had fallen off right in their hands.

Gym class was the worst. He was still in the gym class for the football players — lifting, conditioning. Coach Peterson wouldn't let him transfer out. "You're a football player, Caden, whether you like it or not. I absolutely will not allow you to demean yourself by taking gym with a bunch of dorks."

And even though he was harassed in gym constantly and without reprieve, Caden didn't have any thoughts about causing a problem when he showed up to class that day, the day after. He was just going to get through it.

Then one of his former co-captains tripped Caden during a drill. Caden flew a few feet then skidded across the gym floor, crashing into some of the guys. They all laughed.

He picked himself up and stood there, twisting his GPS band. "What's up, McNeal?" The tone of his loud voice stopped the drill.

McNeal turned, faced him and shrugged his shoulders. Tall and skinny, the cheerleaders' favorite was a star no matter how many passes he dropped. "You're a loser, Fletcher. I'm sick of seeing you in this class."

"You think I like being in this class? You and everyone else in here are nothin' but drones, McNeal, and your parents are the pilots. The only mark you'll ever leave on this planet is gonna be where you crash and burn."

"Up yours, Fletcher. Only an idiot turns down a full-ride."

"McNeal's right, Caden," interjected Coach Peterson. He wore his hair clipped close and his polo shirts tucked in tight. With his fists at his waist and his nostrils flaring like a mad bull, he puffed out his chest and got in Caden's face. Caden could not back away; the team was right behind him.

"I just don't understand you, Fletcher. Why'd you quit football? Oh yeah, yeah, I forgot. " Coach distorted his face into that of a sad, grotesque clown and whined, "Your shoulder hurt. You had a headache. You wanna go to art school."

They laughed at him. Coach crossed his arms across his chest. "You could really use the boost in your image, son. Right now you're about next to nothing in the big scheme of things. And image is everything in Rolling Acres."

"Life is not about living up to somebody else's idea of who I should be," Caden said.

Coach leaned further into Caden's face and stared him in the eye. "Oh, I get it. You're too smart to play football. You got life all figured out. Caden's Guide to Being a Complete Moron."

Coach's breath reeked and Caden couldn't stand it. He was suffocating. Caden shoved him, but Coach didn't even fall down, he was just thrown off-guard, dropping his clipboard. Then Coach raised his arm, high in the air, and instead of letting him smash in his face, Caden ran. He ran through the circle of guys, plowed through the gym door and spilled out onto the sidewalk, setting off the alarm.

He raced across the practice field toward the wooded boundary. Three security guards burst out of the high school, shouting for the tracking dogs, and yelling at Caden not to make his situation worse by forcing them to hunt him down. Caden stumbled into the woods and stopped to catch his breath. The dogs barked. He'd never done anything like this, ever before. But instead of panicking, Caden could think more clearly.

Once, in fifth grade, his favorite science teacher had taken the class to the creek that ran through a section of Rolling Acres. Somewhere behind the high school. They caught bugs, put them into jars and studied them back at class. Then Mr. Loveswell had taken them back to the creek where they let the bugs go free. Caden closed his eyes to remember how to get to the creek. He listened for it.

When he finally found the creek, he stepped into the cold stream and walked calf-deep down its center. His feet squished around in his tennis shoes. After a good distance, he knelt and plunged his left wrist into the water. He did what he could to try and pry open the plastic protecting the innards of the GPS unit or even to loosen the band's latch. He walked farther along. He had left the sounds of the trackers behind him awhile ago. Why should they try very hard when his parents knew where he was?

He picked up a rock, positioned the GPS unit on a boulder embedded in the bank of the creek and smashed the rock against the plastic. He smashed and smashed and smashed again and the stupid thing didn't even get a hairline crack.

He climbed up the bank of the creek and walked toward where the woods thinned out. He walked through the tree line and back into his own neighborhood. He couldn't go home. He couldn't go back to high school. He'd blown it and it was only a matter of when and where they would catch him.


	2. Arrest

TWO - Arrest

In 2015, in response to countless parents refusing to remove GPS bands on their child's eighteenth birthday, Congress passed the Gazing Parent Security Overview Act. The law mandated that GPS units must be programmed to automatically release on the date of the child's eighteenth birthday. And, if a child entered the criminal justice system, parents were relieved of their legal responsibilities and were required to release the GPS band. "We cannot have our national security threatened by parents refusing to remove the GPS tracking units of our soldiers," said the Commander-in-Chief.

.net

Caden chuckled at the thought of his mother's face as it must have looked to her employees when her Gazing Parent Security unit had buzzed like crazy in her pretty little office. He wondered what his heart rate was measuring in the athletic trainer's office since he still had on his intelligent textile skin-fitting tactical v-neck workout shirt.

But then he noticed the young mother ahead on the sidewalk. She stopped pushing her baby stroller, her eyes widened and her fingers locked in a death grip around the stroller handle. Caden hung his head and continued walking toward her. He thought about crossing the street, but it wasn't worth the effort.

The baby let out a loud wail.

"Sshh!" the mother said. She fumbled nervously in her diaper bag, pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it in a frightened, quiet way.

The baby cried louder, and Caden averted his eyes, hoping to diffuse the situation.

Doors were slamming shut and window blinds snapping closed in each and every house on both sides of the street.

The mother stepped a few feet back, yanking her stroller. Then she dragged the stroller in a frantic turn and rushed across the street. Snatching worried glances at Caden, she hustled down the block and around the corner, the stroller and her baby bouncing hard over the sidewalk cracks.

The idea of searching the internet for where he might go came to Caden, and he tried to put his hand in his pocket for his cell phone. Only, he had no pockets in his gym shorts and his cell phone was still in his locker, back at school. He felt stupid then for not remembering this.

Caden stood there, directionless. All of his life had been spent under supervision, and he'd been taught to fear the kind of teenager he'd now become. "Teenagers not in school or at home," his mother had said, "are dangerous. They don't care who they hurt in their reckless abandon of what a child should do for his parents. You stay away from them."

In this subdivision of sameness, the perfectly square yards of deep green mowed grass overwhelmed Caden. The uniformity, the conformity, the shallow allure of material wealth all stood out to him as bright as the sunshine reflected off the scrubbed concrete. It blinded him. The little kids playing tag in one of the yards were part of the ornamentation of the upper middle class. He hardly saw them.

Until one of the little kids screamed upon noticing Caden and soon they were all screaming. Two women rushed out of a peach-colored house, gathered their flock and hustled them inside. Caden crammed his fists into his jean pockets and pulled his shoulders up against a wind that never blew. He didn't blame them for being afraid. Part of him was afraid too, afraid even of this new Caden, but a bigger part of him felt like he did after a game when he took his heavy, sweaty shoulder pads off. He picked up his pace to who knew where.

A siren sounded far away and then suddenly, it wasn't. A Rolling Acres Subdivision police car slammed its brakes, drove over the curb and onto the sidewalk right in front of Caden. He raised his hands, palms out and shrugged his shoulders. The car doors whipped open and two big, ugly cops jumped out and lunged at him. They pinned him down on the sidewalk, scraping his face and the palms of his hands.

One cop smashed an elbow into the spot between Caden's shoulder blades. He grasped Caden's forehead with his other chunky hand, pulling Caden's head backwards. The other cop lay on Caden's legs, grinding his bones into the concrete.

"Hey! You're hurting me!"

"Hold still, kid, I wanna good look at you," the one in his face said, snapping his nicotine-stained teeth. He flipped open a cell phone and there on the display was a picture of Caden along with his GPS number. "Yeah, it's him all right." He released Caden's forehead and pushed his face into the cement.

"Think you can go wherever you want?" Smokes-like-a-fiend said and his cigarette smell turned Caden's stomach green.

Caden strained to lift his face off the ground. "No … Obviously, I can't. Obviously, it is imperative that all Rolling Acres offspring either spend countless unforgettable moments with their narcissistic and emotionally-removed parents or confined in an institution of abject thought."

"Oh, a smart aleck, gee, my favorite kind of delinquent," said Eats-too-many-doughnuts as he rolled off Caden's legs.

Smokes picked Caden up with one arm and stood him on his feet, but never let go. "This is that kid that assaulted Coach Peterson then left high school without permission. His mother says he's become incorrigible." He sneered. "Arrest him."

Eats shoved Caden's face against the clean white patrol car, cuffed then brutally frisked him.

"You shouldn't believe everything my mother says. She could care less about me."

"Hey kid, this ain't family therapy," said Eats. "Rolling Acres teenagers have two places they're allowed to be – home and school. And you ain't in either. That makes you a juvenile delinquent."

"What about my Miranda rights?" Caden asked. "I have rights, you know."

"Rights?" Smokes laughed. He raised his voice. "Juveniles have no rights." He yelled louder. "Ya got no rights!"

"You broke the law, Smartaleck" said Eats. "You kids are nothin' but trouble." He towed Caden to the passenger side and threw him in the back. The handcuffs pressed tight on his wrists and his face and hands burned from the sidewalk scrapes. The cops hopped in and slammed the doors. The whole car smelled like cigarette butts and stale doughnuts. Caden couldn't breathe without gagging.

An annoying electronic beeping noise came from the navigational unit attached to the dash of the car. The unit displayed a map of the neighborhood they were in along with a badge icon marking the spot where Caden guessed they were. A large red dot nearly covered by the badge icon flashed in rhythm to the obnoxious beep.

Smokes grabbed a white plastic tubal scanner connected to the navigational unit, leaned over the seat then grabbed Caden's left wrist with his other hand. He swiped the scanner over Caden's GPS unit then released him.

The beeping stopped and a screen of text appeared on the navigational unit. It listed everything vital there was to know about Caden:

CADEN MICHAEL FLETCHER GPS:FL01110112-2030 DOB:11/01/2011 MICHAEL & CHARITY FLETCHER 1101 PLEASANT VALLEY DR ROLLING ACRES MI USA 5'11" 214LBS DARK BROWN HAIR BROWN EYES EUROPEAN AMERICAN JUNIOR ROLLING ACRES HIGH SCHOOL

Without reading it, Eats typed in that Caden had been apprehended for incorrigibility at his parents' request – a habitual offender. The text returned this answer:

ESCORT JUVENILE DELINQUENT TO APATHETIC COUNTY JUVENILE HALL OF JUSTICE

Smokes lifted a microphone to his mouth. "Citizens of Rolling Acres, the offender is in custody. You are safe and secure once more. We, your Law Enforcement, thank you for your exemplary assistance in bringing juvenile delinquents to justice."

Caden leaned his head against the car window. The adrenaline rush that had propelled him through the high school doors was gone and in its place was the crash. He blanked out for awhile – his brain quiet but his body still awake.

Until he spotted the community gates. Caden had been semi-unprepared for the fact that they were taking him outside. He nervously wondered what the Apathetic County Juvenile Hall of Justice might be like. Usually, going outside the walls of Rolling Acres had been an exciting event, a football game or a music concert or a family vacation. And since his experience had taught him that leaving Rolling Acres was usually fun, in a very parentally controlled and managed way, he relaxed.

The patrol car slowed to a stop and Smokes swiped his scanner across the screen of the black fiberglass box attached to the guard house while the guard tipped his hat to the cops. The steel gates pivoted outward on their hinges and Smokes drove through.

But this time, they didn't hop right on the freeway and drive straight to the event. Rather, the cops drove down unknown roads through unknown neighborhoods and as they drove farther and farther away from Rolling Acres, Caden began to see things he had until this time, only been vaguely aware of, filed in his mind as blurred photographs labeled 'poverty', 'crime', 'the inner city'. They passed dilapidated houses and rusty junk cars and strange people. Dirty and unkempt people pushing grocery carts stacked with garbage. Immodest people with loud hair and large chains for jewelry, some drinking from paper bag enclosed bottles.

Sure, he'd seen movies (well, those his parents had chosen for him) and the Internet (well, approved sites only) but he'd never actually driven into an inner-city neighborhood. It seemed dangerous, especially the hard-faced teenagers hanging in small groups in front of run-down buildings, smoking cigarettes. Why weren't they in school? How were they going to get a good job so they could live somewhere nice like Rolling Acres if they weren't going to school?

Caden was glad he was inside the cop car, forgetful of what was happening to him and sorry instead for the people living in such poverty and decay but afraid of them at the same time.

After they'd driven for about an hour the patrol car stopped and parallel parked in front of a long, low red brick building. The sign on the building read JUVENILE HALL OF JUSTICE. The cops hopped out. Eats pulled Caden out of the car and dragged him up the marble court steps.

"I at least get a phone call, right?" Maybe his mother would change her mind if she really knew where they were taking him.

"Shut up, kid. Show some respect for Justice or I'll have to smack ya." The cop yanked on his handcuffs in the right spot to hurt.

Eats shoved him through the door. "Book him, Sarge," he said to the front desk. People milled all around, some under arrest, many of them looking like those Caden had just seen on the street.

Sarge looked over Caden. "For what?" he asked, irritated.

"He's an incorrigible," said Eats. "His mother called him in."

Sarge rolled his eyes, "You Rollin' Acres guys!" He leaned toward his counter and pushed down a button. "Somebody get over here and get this reject outta my face!"

A short cop with a Santa Claus gut and a red-veined nose waddled over. He stared at Caden and shook his head. "Come on, kid. Big time criminal, are ya?" He grunted and took Caden to a messy desk.

"Sit down," Santa said with a nasal twang in his voice. He opened a metal desk drawer, removed a single sheet of yellowed paper and with one sweep of his fat arm, cleared his desk of hundreds of candy wrappers. The clear plastic wrappers and foil liners floated through the air and landed helter-skelter all over the stained gray carpet. "Name?"

"Caden Fletcher."

He wrote that down with a chewed pen he found behind one of his lumpy ears. "Date of birth?"

"November 1st, 2012."

"Sweet sixteen, huh? Ha! Address? Oh yeah, I forgot." He chuckled. "You won't need that anymore." He tilted his chin down and winked at Caden with glazed eyes, "You must be givin' yer Moms and Pops a hard time up there in yer fancy exclusive town."

"Don't I get a phone call?"

Diabetic Santa cop laughed, his belly shaking his belt buckle in an unattractive jingle. "Who ya gonna call, kid, yer parents?"

"What if I am?"

"Ha!" He grunted. "Listen, kid. I thinks you's on yer own now. Understand? You got booted! No more Rollin' Acres fer ya. Whether right or wrong - I can't say. I just enforce the law. I used to see kids like you all the time when them bands first got put on the market." He shook his head. "But it's been awhile. You must have really made 'em mad."

"It's my mother. I fractured her dream of having a football star son. I told her to let me go so I wouldn't disappoint her anymore."

Santa stood. "Yeah, well, you got yer wish." He motioned to Caden to stand up and when Caden did, he took him to the fingerprint station.

The station consisted of a tall counter supported by three steel sides and four steel shelves with metal baskets full of ink pads and blank fingerprint cards, thick dirty binders and a pile of blackened sky blue rags. The white Formica was chipped, gashed and stained in black splotches and smears.

Santa fumbled around in the metal baskets then slapped a blank fingerprint card and an inkpad on the counter. He scribbled Caden's name and birth date across the top of the card, opened the inkpad, grabbed his hand and began squishing his finger pads into the black ink. After all of his prints were smeared onto the card, the cop threw the card into an empty basket.

"Come on, kid, we gotta get your picture." He took him over to the mug shot screen that hung inside a scuffed up three sided cubicle. "Stand on the X." He pointed to the duct tape X on the ancient linoleum floor. The duct tape had been walked on so many times the edges were curled and the fibers broken.

He took Caden's picture with one of those antique Polaroid cameras that was so huge the cop could hardly hold it still. Caden did not smile.

When Caden's image failed to distinctly appear on the Polaroid film, the cop whipped the pictures toward a green waste basket, missing and adding to the pile on the floor. "What's the use?" He rubbed his lumpy ear."I need ya to hand over yer shoelaces and watch."

Caden stood there.

Santa looked away. "Look, kid, it's fer yer own safety. We don't need you makin' a mess of yerself in the jail cell or nothin' like that. See what I'm saying?" He held his thick hand out.

Caden removed his shoelaces much slower than he intended to. It was as if he were lapping into shock, bending over - the blood rushing into his head. When he stood back up, he had to wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve and his eyes with the palms of his hands. He unlatched his watch, slipped it off and stared at its face. Somehow these physical acts of removing his personal belongings made him accept that this was no longer a bad dream he would wake from.

Santa cleared his throat. "Look, kid, we don't pick our parents. Ya got to make the best of it now." He placed Caden's shoelaces and his watch into a manila envelope, licked it shut with his corroded white tongue, and set it on his desk.

When they got to the jail cell, Santa said, "Try to take care of yerself, Caden. Know what I mean? It's gonna be tough, you's bein' a Rollin' Acres kid, but maybe, just maybe, you can find yerself some kind of light at the end of yer tunnel."

The cold steel door slammed shut behind Caden. He crossed his arms then planted both feet firmly on the ground. None of the other kids in the dark, dank, b.o. infused jail cell spoke to him and he wasn't in the mood to make new friends. Not that he was in the mood to do anything at all. Not that it mattered. Anymore.

His own mother had called the cops.


	3. Parsa

THREE –- Parsa

In an effort to combat rising juvenile delinquency rates in poor inner-city areas, the government has begun building special juvenile correctional facilities. "These facilities eliminate the government's need for parents to raise these problem children," stated Health & Human Services Secretary Lola Nescient, "since the parents are obviously, woefully inadequate to do so in the first place."

Propagandist, Paige (2012, October 6) Federal juvenile facilities brave new frontiers. Associated Press.

Caden slunked down against the cold concrete wall and rested his butt on the backs of his heels. He kept his hands in front of him and didn't make eye contact with the other guys.

None of them looked surbuban, like him - college prep clothes, short hair, banded, worried. They were different in every way from their skin to their hair. Long hair, afros, no hair, hair stiffened into spikes. The unbanded moved their bodies in a way that Caden immediately envied. It was as if they thought they could do whatever they wanted, even though they were all stuck in a jail cell.

One by one, each kid was taken away by two excessively muscled jail keepers. Rip and Puke were bursting out of their puke green uniform shirts and tight polyester khakis, their heads and faces shaved clean. It became Caden's turn.

"Caden Fletcher, the Judge is ready to see you," announced Rip.

"Yeah, okay." He shuffled his way out the door and into the hallway where they cuffed and yanked him around.

They trudged along a narrow gloomy corridor, their footsteps sounding sad and hollow and the jail keepers' keys clanging as they swung to and fro. Caden couldn't see the end of the hall nor could he count the many narrow doors along each side; each black door tagged with a small brass nameplate in its center. When they finally stopped he had to place his face right up against the door to read the tiny letters on the nameplate:

The Right Honorable Hasno Cumpashun

Judge of Perpetually Problematic

Pubescent Pigheads

Puke rapped on the door with his hairy knuckles.

"Come in!" barked a deep angry voice.

Inside the tiny room built with concrete block, behind a steel desk too small for his knees to fit under, sat a gangly man with a sharp crook of a nose and chicken lips. He wore a faded black judge's robe that was two times too small and a filthy white graduation hat, minus its tassel. His creepy bug eyes protruded so far that Caden waited for his tongue to flick out and wipe his eyeballs.

"Caden Fletcher?" the judge asked without looking at him. He made busy with the clutter of papers strewn across his desk. Some of them had fallen to the cracked cement floor and were marked with dusty footprints. Behind the judge teetered a bookshelf with stacks of dusty books clinging for their lives to semi-collapsed shelves and bent manila file folders dumped in piles. A single clear light bulb, hanging by a frayed wire, provided the room's only light.

"Yes."

"Sixteen years old?" Judge Hasno stared at Caden, without blinking his eyes.

"Yes."

"This police report I have here before me states that you were picked up in the Rolling Acres Subdivision. That you willfully escaped from Rolling Acres High School without permission, particularly without your mother's, and that you are a most selfish and disrespectful boy, without concern for your parents' image. Furthermore, you assaulted the Varsity Football Coach, a person of enormous standing and prestige in Rolling Acres and a person you should be doing everything to please. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Caden wondered if Hasno had any eyelids at all, he still hadn't blinked, or if he really did moisten his eyes by licking them with his tongue. Caden tried to see how long he could go without blinking his own eyelids. One, two, three, four, a little discomfort now, five, six …

"Did you not, hear what I just said?"

"What is the big frickin' deal about me playing football? Who cares if I play football? I don't want to play football. It's stupid!"

"Guilty as charged!" Hasno brought his gavel crashing down upon his little metal desk. The clashing ricocheted throughout the concrete room and Caden instinctively ducked. The judge scribbled on a paper and thrust it at Rip, who leaned in, grabbed it, folded it then thrust it into his shirt pocket.

"I, the Right Honorable Hasno Cumpashun hereby sentence you, Caden Fletcher, to life imprisonment without possibility of parole. You will serve out this sentence within the confines of Parsa. Take him away!" Judge Hasno leapt up with one fist in the air, knocking his desk over and shifting his hat into his face. Books, papers, pencils flew everywhere.

Rip and Puke rushed to right the desk while the judge thrashed at their heads with his skinny, bony hands. The lonely light bulb swayed from the mad air turbulence, and the laughter came out from within Caden as if his stress release button had been smacked real hard. Tears rolled down his face.

"You stupid idiots!" yelled Judge Hasno at the bumbling jail keepers. "Am I the only one around here who can do anything right?" Then with the desk finally back in its place, Hasno collapsed onto his chair. Only, he missed his chair and landed with a thud on the filthy floor.

Caden laughed uncontrollably loud.

"Get out!" the judge said. "Get out of here right now!"

Flushed with embarrassment, Rip and Puke strong-armed Caden out the door and down the corridor, and he kept laughing until he knew it was going to turn into crying. How did today end up like it did? How could his very own parents send him away forever? Didn't they love him? Well, he knew the answer to that one after last night's nice little family meeting; maybe, he'd known it for a long time. It made a big chunk of his heart hard as a rock.

The steroid brothers made Caden sit down on a metal folding chair across from the front desk. He leaned forward rather than rest against his handcuffed wrists. Rip approached the desk, pulling the paper from his pocket. Diabetic Santa cop grabbed the paper and spread it smooth on the counter. He picked up a telephone and punched in a number.

"Mrs. Fletcher?"

Santa avoided Caden's gaze.

"We need ya to send the release signal now."

"Yep, it's all over."

"Yes M'am, he's no longer yer responsibility. That's what ya wanted." Santa looked at Caden. "Seems like a nice enough kid, though, if ya ask me."

Santa held the phone away from his ear and the receiver let out an angry buzzing sound.

"No, no, Mrs. Fletcher I'm not intending to be disrespectful to ya whatsoever. Please, no need to shout. Yes, M'am, you's right, I ain't got no idea the trouble he's put ya through."

"I understand you folks think he'll be better off in a facility where we's can keep an eye on him, help him change his ways. But with life imprisonment, you's ain't gonna reap the benefits of his havin' changed, that's all I'm sayin'. No offense at all, M'am."

"I'm just sayin', if he was my son, I'd take me a deep breath and see if we couldn't work things out a bit. Maybe hold off on the facility."

"No, M'am, I'm not a licensed psychologist."

"Yes, M'am, I'm done sayin' my peace."

"We's pretty busy here, Mrs. Fletcher, think ya can send that signal now?"

The band latch clicked then opened. The band clattered to the floor behind Caden's chair. Santa waddled over, put his hand on Caden's shoulder. "Stand up, kid." Santa uncuffed him then placed the manila envelope with his watch and shoelaces in his hands. "Sorry about yer tough luck, Caden."

"It's not your fault. She's never liked me."

"Put yer shoelaces back in yer shoes and tie 'em up."

Caden did so and slung his watch on his wrist then Santa put the handcuffs back on him. At the front desk, the cop flung the band in the trash.

Smokes and Eats stumbled through the door. Eats grabbed him by the cuffs and dragged him outside. It didn't matter that Caden was resignedly cooperative, Eats held onto him as if he were trying to break free. He threw Caden into the back of the patrol car and the two cops hopped in, Smokes in the driver's seat.

For all of Caden's sixteen years, he'd heard about Parsa only one time and not by its name. Even though kids disappeared once in a while, Caden, for some dumb reason, had always bought the official explanations. Sent to a boarding school that could truly address the student's individual needs; died in a fiery car crash; drowned in a pool, a lake, the ocean on vacation; stricken with cancer or some other fatal disease and sent to hospice. Now he wondered how many really had and how many had been sent to Parsa. He'd heard of a couple of kids going to juvie. That kid who'd brought a gun to school and shot at Coach Peterson. Those two that got drunk after last year's prom and tried to drive home. But juvie was a temporary thing, right?

When he was twelve, there'd been a disturbing rumor passed around Middle School that a hall monitor had caught a girl smoking in the bathroom and her parents had sent her away forever. When he'd asked to where, no one knew. Somewhere we don't want to ever go, they'd said.

Caden slumped forward to relieve the pressure of the handcuffs and rested his shoulder against the window. The blur of the scenery passing by soon put Caden to sleep. Even though his stomach growled. Even though at the thought of his parents he felt like exploding all over the cop car. Even though his brain hurt from trying to take everything in. When they came to a rough stop he jerked awake. He had no idea how long he'd been sleeping.

"Out, kid," Eats barked then opened the door for Caden.

The sun shone bright and the reflection off the road and the gleaming patrol car stung Caden's eyes. When he could open them all the way, he realized he stood before a colossus steel gate embedded in a concrete block wall, miles long and fifty feet high. Razor-sharp barbed wire prevented escape from over the top of the wall, and the steel gate was as wide as a school bus and as tall as the wall.

Smokes slid Caden's sentencing paper through a thin slot in a darkened Plexiglas guard station that jutted from the concrete to the right of the gate. Rusty cranking noises erupted as the gate began retreating into pockets in the wall.

Behind the gate stood three creatures: man-sized scorpions walking upright on their bottom two pair of legs, their tails scraping along the ground to aid them in balancing. Only the final tail segment with the venomous telson quivered in the air. On their abdomens the feathery-combed pectines were semi-shielded by triangular chrome breastplates that had a symbol engraved in the center: .

Using their large pincers, they held automatic assault weapons at strange angles, except for the scorpion in the middle, in one of its claws flapped a paper. Caden wondered if they ever actually shot what they aimed at or if the bullets strayed everywhere.

The scorpions clacked across the concrete, stopped in unison then the one in the middle, the one with the paper, approached Caden. The scorpion dropped onto all its legs and Caden had to step back to avoid touching it.

"He's all yers." Eats clumsily removed Caden's handcuffs then shoved him toward the creature.

"Oh, no! No! No! No!" he yelled at the cop. "I'm not going with him!"

"You should've thought of that before you left school." Eats and the scorpion laughed together, the scorpion sounding like a hissing cat.

The scorpion's median eyes stayed on Caden while the other five pair read over his sentencing paper. The creature clacked its way behind him and Caden popped out in goose pimples as the scorpion's pincer arms, one still holding his paper and the other its automatic rifle, encircled him, without touching him. The rifle seemed to taunt Caden, daring him.

Caden leapt for the rifle. He grabbed the bottom of the pistol grip thinking the scorpion's grip was loose and that he could slide the rifle off its pincer. He was wrong. The scorpion lifted its pincer and shook Caden off in one slam against the ground. Tucking the sentencing paper behind its breastplate, the arachnid wrapped its pincer around Caden's left arm then aimed its rifle at his head. Caden's blood beaded in a bracelet around his upper arm as the pincer squeezed harder. Not about to lose his arm, Caden acquiesced. The squeeze lessened. The burning pain did not.

He pulled his shoulders up and shut his eyes as the scorpion brought its mouth onto his neck.

The creature tightly and painfully clasped the skin on the back of Caden's neck with its mouth pincers. The smell of its breath was unbearable to Caden. He could stand the sight of blood, but bad smells, like this one of death, decay and dung made his head swim in revulsion. The scorpion forced him to stand then pushed him toward the gate. The other two arachnids fell in behind him, and they guided Caden through the gate and under a sign that read: Parsa.

The steel doors of the gate shut with a sound Caden would never forget, but which he knew no one else paid any attention to. It was a meaningless crash of metal – an inconsiderable auditory phenomenon – much like the cries he'd made for his mother when she'd locked him in his room for alone time. And he'd been but a baby. Crying was useless when it didn't get heard. Hearts hardened under imprisonment.

And now Caden was imprisoned in Parsa - a dirty, run-down city. Piles of garbage and junk filled the spaces around abandoned houses and gutted buildings, their windows broken out and their yards jungles of weeds, rusting car parts and appliances.

The scorpions hustled Caden to the Plexiglas guard station. On the Parsa side of the gate, the guard station was a section of a massive gray concrete structure that ran perpendicular to the Wall. There was an enormous horde of heavily armed scorpion police waiting for action. A short siren blared and a group of four arachnids clambered onto motorcycles and raced their engines. The scorpions stretched belly-down along the length of the bikes, their large pincers steering the handlebars and their telsons held high in the air. The motorcycles were equipped with automatic weapons attached to each side of the fuel tank, and the scorpions kept the points of their upper two pairs of legs on the triggers.

The creature guiding Caden never once let up on the stinging pinch it had on him. When they finally stood at the entrance to the guard station, the scorpion placed its automatic rifle in a holster. The others aimed theirs at his head. The creature fumbled around getting the paper out from behind its breastplate, its pincer clinking and scratching against the chrome. The longer it took the tighter its pinch on his neck.

From inside the guard shack, a taller arachnid reached out and snatched his paper. The smell of dead rotting snake threatened to put Caden out.

"Who gets the stinky little brat?" wheezed one of the other scorpions. The scorpions sounded like wet whistles when they spoke.

"He's got a problem with school. Says here, and I quote, Caden refuses to show on paper his true intellectual capacity thereby bringing disgrace to his parents with his less than exemplary academic achievements." The guard hissed.

Then it continued reading, "Refuses to conform to Rolling Acres expectations. Refuses to be docile and compliant. Acts out violently in school settings." The guard slapped his paper down. "The Grim Reapers put in a request for a new recruit, and this terd-brain sounds like one of 'em. Sirius, take him over to the Lerno Factory."

The arachnid let go of Caden's neck and moved him away from its mouth by his left arm. "Sure thing, Boss." Sirius jabbed his other pincer into Caden's side and laughed when he grimaced in pain. "Come on, Brat, let's get goin'. I don't have all day to waste on yer worthless carcass." Sirius's eyes went in every direction.

"Screw you!" Caden said.

"Whaddya say?" Sirius asked, all of his eyes glaring at him.

"I said 'Screw you!' you disgusting, foul-smelling, freak of my imagination." Caden glared right back.

On each side of Caden's head Sirius slapped his prey-capturing pincers, clasping Caden's ears between them. "Stupid little snot. How 'bout I slice yer ears off then we can talk some more about yer imagination. Whaddya say?"

Caden thought about it. If he didn't have ears he wouldn't have to hear.

"Ya stubborn, no-good delinquent," said Sirius in a loud whistle and he began to shut his razor-sharp pincers on Caden's ears.

The tender skin behind his ears began to bleed, the drops falling gently onto Caden's neck.

"That's enough, Sirius," wheezed the taller arachnid in the station. "We ain't gonna get nothin' for a deaf brat!"

"Yeah, you's right." Sirius let his pincers collapse to his sides, but then he whipped out one of his legs and in a millisecond, the tip of his leg sliced across Caden's face.

"Ow!" Caden cried, his cheek a bloody stripe of burning pain.

"Some kind of weirdo are ya?" said Sirius, rising up to stand on his two back pairs of legs. The arachnid pushed him toward a group of motorcycles with sidecars. "I have a zero tolerance policy for brats like you. Come in my city with yer lousy attitude, like the world owes ya somethin'. Nobody ever cut me any slack." The clacking noise of his steps annoyed Caden, and he was glad when the scorpion stopped at a motorcycle. "Get in!" Sirius shoved Caden into the sidecar then crawled onto the motorcycle and started the engine. "Yer going to the Grim Reapers!" he yelled.

"Yeah, I got that part." Caden searched for a seatbelt then clutched the sides of the sidecar as Sirius whipped around a corner. He searched some more. Then he relaxed.

It didn't matter if he fell out anyway.


	4. Grim Reapers

FOUR – Grim Reapers

The new federal juvenile correctional facilities are modeled upon the latest theories in the field of criminal psychology, including Bio-Identity Transfer. When asked to describe the facility to the average parent, the master planner Dr. Sans Empathy, replied, "It's not exactly Pleasure Island, but a transformative place all the same."

Propagandist, Paige (2012, October 6) Federal juvenile facilities brave new frontiers. Associated Press.

The Lerno Factory was an abandoned automobile manufacturing plant. Not that Caden had ever seen a manufacturing plant. He wondered what it'd be like to work in a factory and build a car with his very own hands. It'd be cool to build a car. A fast car. He didn't even know of anyone who knew anyone who built anything in a manufacturing plant. In countries far away was where cars were built.

Everything his mother and father bought was built in some place far away. They worked their long hours, sacrificing their precious family time and reducing their lives to vain acts of suburban window dressing. Life had to be about more than that and Caden was determined to find what that was. He suspected it was something ethereal, shadowless, intangible but there just the same. His fifth grade science teacher had brought it with him to class every day, and Caden had dreamt often that maybe, please just maybe, he'd been adopted and any day now Mr. Loveswell would want him back. So much for that.

Sirius drove around the back of the factory through the missing gate of the chain-link fence and parked his bike in the empty employee parking lot dotted with clumps of grass and weeds that had poked through the cracks and grown tall. He yanked Caden out of the sidecar with a pincer around his right arm and a rifle pointed at his heart. He squeezed his mouth pincers extra hard on the back of Caden's neck and guided him inside the dark plant. With his weapon raised and all of his eyes scanning for suspicious activity, Sirius wheezed loudly, "Hey, ghouls! Gotta new recruit for ya!"

A lighted office glowed artificial at the other end of the factory. On each side of the path to the office sat discarded automated machinery and piles of dusty automobile parts. Sirius aimed his gun in the direction of the sound of fabric dragging across the floor and bottles clanging against each other, and he anxiously shifted his pointed pairs of legs to better his defensive positioning.

"These guys gimme the heebie-jeebies," Sirius wheezed.

Like an actor entering the stage from center curtain, a figure, entirely concealed in a hooded black robe, floated out of the darkness. A Grim Reaper rode a skateboard and carried a rifle with a leather strap slung across his back. Sirius took two steps back. The Grim Reaper cradled a cardboard box filled with amber brown glass bottles under his armpit.

"Is that you, Bones?" Sirius asked.

The Reaper nodded his faceless hood in the affirmative then put one skeletal foot on the floor.

"Whaddya got for me?" Sirius holstered his weapon.

Bones shoved the open cardboard box of clanking bottles across the floor to Sirius. Sirius inspected the offer with his five pairs of eyes while watching Bones with his median pair.

"Six quarts of beer? You ghouls are gonna try and get a new recruit outta me with six lousy quarts of beer? Bones, you's outta yer mind!"

"Business has been slow. That's the best we could do. That's why we need him."

A shiver ran across Caden's skin when he realized Bones was staring at him with non-existent eyeballs - vacuous skull sockets.

"Lizard King will never accept this," said Sirius, "ya know that, Bones. I ain't doin' ya no favors." He pulled Caden backwards. "I'll just take him over to the Pigskins."

"Okay, okay. Slow done, Sirius." Bones's covered arm floated inside his robe a few seconds before he revealed a plastic sandwich bag crammed full of dried dark green leaves.

Sirius grabbed the bag in a flash. "That's more like it." He released Caden then jabbed the points of his pincer into his back, forcing him toward the Grim Reaper. The scorpion scooped up the box, turned and scurried his way out of the factory, the bottles smacking dangerously hard against each other with his uneven gait.

Caden stared at Bones, wondering if the Reaper was going to shoot him or slice his head off with a sickle. He was pretty sure he was staring right back.

"Hey," Caden said.

"What's up, bud?" He sounded older than Caden, twenty or so.

"Nothin' much."

"Looks like you got pretty banged up." In a slow, ghostly way, he pointed a bony finger at Caden's cheek, his neck, his arm. "Giving the Guard a hard time, huh?"

"Yeah." Caden ran his fingers across the back of his neck then across his cheek as if he could brush the sting away. "Those scorpions are somethin' else."

"What are you in for?" Bones asked.

"I have no idea. Some crap about being non-conformant. I guess it's for not playing stupid frickin' football for Coach Peterson."

Bones chuckled. "Hey man, did you hear about that guy tried to shoot Coach Peterson?"

"Yeah?"

He poked his chest with his bony finger.

"You?"

He nodded. "One day, I just couldn't take it anymore. I waited during practice for him to get in my face again. And sure enough, he did. You little sonofabitch, that's what he called me, think you're so smart you can call the plays now! I don't give a rat's ass that you're a big important college recruit. Then the puke's face turned deep red and he screamed at the top of his lungs. I'm the coach! Got that! Me! Not you! Hey, where you going? I ran to my gear bag, pulled my Grandpa's shotgun out and BAM!"

"He limps now," Caden said.

Bones chuckled. "Yeah well, for all the trouble, I should've made sure I killed him."

"Eh, killing's not the answer, man. They would've turned around and hired another diptard just like him. Make the parents happy."

"What's the answer then, Einstein?"

Caden chuckled. "I don't know. I guess make it through somehow. Grow up. Decide not to be like them when we're in charge. Find value in life that doesn't come from something you buy with a credit card."

"Whoa, way deep. You're talking major next generation revolution. A total rejection of the American dream."

"You mean American nightmare. It's plain scary when they're hacking away at your self because it doesn't fit their image of the perfect little American boy."

"Yeah. I was nothing but a quarterback. It didn't matter that I wanted to study chemistry. Oh, no! Couldn't go to a college known for chemistry. It was all about playing in the Big Ten."

"I hear you, man," said Caden.

"Bud, feel like playing video games?"

"Sure, why not. I just got to Level 10 in the Secrets of the Scimitar game. Ever played that?"

"Awesome, isn't it! Excellent graphics. Come on back, what's your name?" he asked.

"Caden. Caden Fletcher."

"Okay, Caden. Call me Bones. Come on back, I'll show you around HQ. Get you some band-aids. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I am."

Bones nodded. He walked his skateboard, his foot bones clicking against the floor and they made their way through the gloomy factory to the lighted office. Bones paused at the vending machines just outside the office door. After punching in a series of codes, he fished out a can of soda pop and a candy bar and handed them to Caden. Then he pulled a first aid kit out of a desk drawer and tossed it to Caden (which he caught without dropping a thing). "Put some antibiotic cream on those wounds of yours. There's band-aids in there, too."

"Thanks," Caden said.

"No problem." Bones watched Caden clean his wounds with pre-moistened antiseptic wipes, apply the cream and stick a band-aid across the still bleeding section of scorpion slice on his outer arm. The cream had anesthetic in it and he was glad for the relief.

Bones parked his skateboard with all the other boards outside HQ then swept open the office door. Painted in black on the glass office door was a sickle and a skateboard crossed in the shape of an X.

"Come on in, Caden," said Bones.

The small office was a cacophony of video game bings, bangs and musical ditties. It was deafening. Against each wall of the office old school desks had been crammed in tight next to each other, facing the wall and a Grim Reaper sat at each desk, plugged into a video game system, completely mesmerized with their games. They held the controller in the folds of their black hooded robes and the long sleeves hid their rapidly moving fingers.

Caden followed Bones around the room. He paused behind every third player and watched him for awhile. "Wanna play?" Bones yelled over the noise.

"Sure."

Bones directed Caden to an empty chair. "Sit down." He handed him a box of video games. "The racing game is pretty cool."

Caden picked out 'Adam True Heart – Earth's Only Hope'.

"Impressive choice, Caden. Have you found the Oracle and received the Earth Warrior Prophecy from her?"

"Yeah, but I can't keep the New World Order soldiers from killing her before she tells me where the sacrificial silver dagger is."

"What level are you on?"

"I'm only on Level 2 but I figured out the nightmare." He loaded the game in the system.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, it was easy. Weird dreams and me go together like mosquitoes and summer_." _Caden smiled. The game came on. "You know how Adam is the seventh generation descendant of a great Shawnee Chief and destined to be the warrior who will save Earth from the aliens? Well, in the nightmare, Adam must lead the forces of the many tribes in battle against the government soldiers."

Caden found the Oracle again on level one, her long white hair and floor-length silver gown flowing around her as if she were in water.

"Wait'll I get a memory card okay! We need that prophecy." Bones shifted down the row of Grim Reapers, stopping behind a small one. "I need your memory card."

"Aw, Bones, no way!" The little Reaper covered his system with his long sleeve, blocking his card.

He flattened the Reaper's hooded face onto his desk and bent down. "The memory card, idiot!"

"Okay! Okay! You're hurting my neck." He plucked the memory card out of his game system and handed it to Bones. Bones released him and returned.

"Here you go, Caden." Bones shoved the card in his system. "I've got to take care of some business; you hang out here and play for awhile. Rasputin wants to have a meeting later. One of the Reapers will show you where to go, okay."

"Yeah, whatever." Caden was reading the prophecy again, searching for more clues.

Steward of the earth

The dog he does tend

Earth's Brave Warrior

And man's best friend

Hidden

The night sheds light

Bidden

His death makes right

Love's pure sacrifice

Binds across eternity

Victorious Warrior

He will be

On his way out Bones yelled, "One of you, take the wanna-be to the meeting. I'll see you there."

No one answered him.

Once again, the New World Order soldiers killed the Oracle before Caden's Adam could get her to tell where the sacrificial dagger was, but this time, she revealed that only through the tribes' victory over the government soldiers would Adam gain a piece of armor necessary to win the game.

Caden played for a long time. He lost every battle. He had to learn the way of victorious warfare, and the government's ways of deception. Snake Hunter would try to show Caden's Adam the right way, but he didn't understand. It was a nightmare to continually repeat mistakes he should've already known how to avoid.

He got a headache. When the Grim Reapers began turning off their units, he turned off his. He rubbed his eyes and his temples until he realized that HQ had become completely silent.

"Come on, uh, what's your name?" asked one of the Reapers in a way that Caden knew he was annoyed that everyone else except him had forgotten about taking the new recruit to the meeting.

"Caden."

"Yeah, okay, Caden." He said his name as if he'd just swallowed a swig of milk gone sour. "Come on, it's time to go, Caayy- de-nn."

A short skeleton in a sheet was mocking Caden. He'd always liked his name, thought it was the best thing his parents ever gave him. He approached him, chin up. "You are?"

The skeleton stepped back from the space invasion. "Scurvy."

"Scurvy?" Caden laughed.

"Gotta problem with that?"

"Didn't your Momma give you enough Vitamin C?"

Scurvy knocked him to the ground with one hard shove then ground his bony knees into Caden's chest. "A bully, huh? Want to know what I do to retards like you?" He held his fleshless finger and thumb in the shape of a gun to his forehead. "Bang. Bang. That's what I do."

"Get off me, jerk!" Caden grabbed his sharp elbows and hurled him off and onto the floor. Then he climbed on top of Scurvy and shoved his forearm right up under his chin. "Don't call me a retard!"

"You started it," he said, squirming under Caden's weight.

"I did not, you did." He let up his pressure on the Reaper's neck.

"You made fun of my name."

"Well, you were mocking me."

"Well, you got a geek name."

"Your name is a disease."

"Bones gave me that name," said Scurvy with pride.

Caden sat down next to him on the floor. "My father used to call me a retard when I dropped the football."

"What a retard," he said, and they both laughed. "Come on, we've got to get going. We're going to be late." He hopped up and offered his skeletal hand to Caden.

Caden took his assistance then brushed himself off. He couldn't shake away the weird feeling of touching moving, living bare bones. "I'm sorry about the name thing I said."

"Yeah, whatever."

"No, I mean it. Something's been eating me lately and I… I'm going off alot. Getting myself into trouble, saying things that burn their whole way up and out my throat. It's like, I could get into a boxing ring and rip the guy into pieces without a single regret."

"Welcome to Parsa," said Scurvy. "Everyone of us here has got some kind of bug up their butt." He chuckled then floated through the office door. He turned around and raised his hand toward Caden. "Next time you mess with me, I'll shoot you for real. Right between the eyes."

"Oooh, I'm scared out of my own skin," Caden said, smiling that up-yours smile.

"Soon, you will be."

Caden was sure he was smiling back at him.


End file.
